The blossoms made a crisp snapping sound, followed by a soft thud, as my mother removed them from the plant with her thumb, and let them fall into the brown plastic bucket. The pungent odor of their fresh blood tickled my nose as I leaned over the bucket.

The blossoms still looked perfectly bright, cheerful, and beautiful to me. I was sad to see them removed and discarded so violently, so casually, and so soon. Too soon.

I retrieved a few of the marigold blossoms from the bucket and held them in my small hand for a moment, childishly thinking that we might be able to put them back on the plant.

"What's wrong with this one?" I asked. My mother assured me that the blossom was past its prime as she brushed against my hand with her own, causing me to drop the blossoms back in the bucket. "We need to make room so that new, prettier blossoms can bloom." I had my doubts as I shrugged my shoulders and sniffed my palm. The scent of their blood was on my hands now too.

She was partly right. More blossoms did arrive. But, they were never prettier than their predecessors. And, they too were snapped from the plant just as they were about to reach their brightest moment. Too soon.

Our mother meant well. She was always rushing to get to the next, bigger, brighter, or better thing for her and her children. But, it seems that we rushed right through our summers, through childhood, and through four and a half decades together. All too soon. Then, much too soon, my mom rushed on to the next, hopefully brighter thing, as she rushed right out of our lives.

I wish that just once I'd said, "What's the rush mom? What's the rush?". I wish that we had sat in those chairs on the front porch that no one ever sat in. I wish that just once we'd sat for a while to admire the flowers that she had worked so hard to cultivate.

For me, marigolds are like the mascot of summer. I always plant a few in the garden each year, in memory of my mother and summers past, and in celebration of the summer currently at hand. But, I never remove the blossoms from my marigolds until they are fully wilted and spent. This is not an act of defiance. It is an act of love. "See. There's no rush mom. No rush."

Now, I like the scent of the marigold sap on my hands. It's the aroma of long summer days, warm nights, and laughter. As I slow down and enjoy summers with my own children, I realize that maybe, sometimes in my youth, I was rushing just as fast as my mother. Or, maybe I was rushing faster.

This year, thanks to global warming, we had an especially long summer. As I walked my dog each day I admired a huge marigold plant that was not only surviving; it was thriving, in mid-November!

One day I saw a mother and her young son relaxing in the sunny yard, each enjoying a cup of yogurt. It occurred to me that the boy was about the same age as I was at the time of the "deadheading" incident. I stopped and, feeling a little uneasy, I told them how much I liked their marigold plant. "I always smile when I see it. It reminds me of summer.", I said.

The woman's face broke into a wide smile. Clearly, the marigold was a source of joy for her family too. "Thank you!", she said. "We'll keep it going as long as we can!".

Later, I was surprised to find the mother and son waiting for us at the chain link fence bordering their yard as we completed our 20 minute loop around the neighborhood.

"Would you like some blossoms to take home?", she offered.

"Sure!" I said as a lump grew steadily larger in my throat. It was such an incredibly kind gesture.

Unfortunately, she had no scissors, and marigolds are damn tough plants. After attempting to gently snap off two small branches, the mom twisted, tugged, and finally yanked on the branches. Back at the fence, I winced in fear that the entire plant would be torn from the ground. It was a simultaneously heart-warming, melancholy, violent, and comical moment. Finally, the branches broke free. As the mom turned and handed the precious blossoms with their jagged and oozing severed stems to me over the fence I saw my own mother's determination and kindness in her eyes. She knew how much the gift meant to me.

The warm November days continued, and the marigold continued to blossom. Then, one cold, grey morning it was gone. As I approached, I could see the hole in the earth where the roots had been. It wasn't until I reached the chain link fence at the edge of the yard that I saw them. Eight slightly wilted blossoms, carefully cut and gently woven into the fabric of the chain link fence glowed orange against the gloom of the day.

Tears flowed down my cheeks as I removed the blossoms from the fence. I knew they were for me. As I gently removed each imperfect blossom from the fence I heard my own mother's voice say approvingly, "There's nothing wrong with these dear. Nothing wrong at all."

"There's no rush," she said to herself and to me reassuringly. "Take your time," she said.

So, we did.

Moments after being placed on my chest, my son scrunched his blue-tinged face, whimpered and began to cry in earnest.

Leaning over us, my husband spoke with him as he had spoken to my belly for nine months. He stopped crying and appeared to listen.

"He knows your voice," I whispered, smiling, eyes full.

"By the way," Dr. Blunt said, "your husband and your mom didn't know how to tell you, but your father died two days ago."

And thus was my full heart broken, bleeding sorrow that still seeps out now and again, even as it burst with joy.

There I stood, waiting for her. We had gotten tickets to a once in a lifetime ball, it being once in a lifetime because in the 21st century we rarely see balls take place. But we somehow got tickets to this one. I was a nervous wreck. We’ve always loved dancing together, but it was just fun and silly dancing while cooking or cleaning or soft romantic sways when we were on a date. We’d often talk about what kind of dance we’d do for our first dance once we got married. But this, this was the real deal. And there I was, completely nervous, and waiting for her to arrive. I was fidgeting with the jacket of my tux when I heard a gasp behind me. I turned around and saw several people staring at the ballroom’s grand staircase, their mouths agape.

I slowly looked at the staircase and I saw her, the love of my life, descending like a queen to her throne. Her wavy, walnut hair cascaded down her back, save for one small twirl framing either side of her face. Atop her head was a small, silver tiara with three gems, an opal in the center flanked by two smaller emeralds. She wore a matching silver necklace with a matching opal on it. Her dress was breathtaking, it was a lighter forest green color with off the shoulder sleeves and silver trim along the hem and neckline. I drank in the sight of beauty that captivated my attention. I looked at her face and saw her smiling back at me. Her lips were a muted red color, inviting but not overwhelming. She had the briefest hint of green eyeliner that matched her dress. But what entranced me was her eyes, a melted chocolate color, warm and smooth and something that I could get lost in forever.

I made my way to the steps, arriving just before she reached the bottom. I gave her a warm smile, filled with love, and offered her my hand. She took it and descended the last few steps. We walked to the center of the ballroom, me still holding her hand, and we pause and face each other. As if the musicians were waiting for us alone, they started playing a waltz. I took her into my arms and we danced. As we spun around the dance floor, the music, the background noise, and the other people faded from existence: it became just her and I. The joy filling her smile, the love in her eyes. Everything was lost her in presence, everything except how much I loved her and loved this moment. After the waltz ended, the musicians changed to a soft, slow melody, one that did not need a style of dance, just two hearts beating as one. I pulled her to me and put my hands on her hips, she instinctively wrapped her arms around my neck.

I gave her a soft smile and whispered, “You are so beautiful.” She grinned, then buried her face in my chest. I brought my lips close to her ear and said, “I love you.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide, tears starting to form in them. I asked softly, “May I kiss you?”

She slowly nodded her head, a smile on her lips. I leaned in and gently pressed my lips to hers, and I could feel her smiling ever wider. My breath hitched as I pulled away, our breaths mingling for a few intimate moments.

The rest of the night, we danced and smiled and laughed. I may have even kissed her a few more times, but I couldn’t help it because she was the woman I loved and she looked absolutely radiant.

The next morning, I slowly woke up, my eyes cracking open to welcome the morning light. A smile grew on my lips as I remembered the wonderful events of the previous night. The ball, the dances, the looks, the kisses, the radiant love of my life. I closed my eyes, still smiling, and turned over towards her in the bed. But my hands only touched cold sheets. I opened my eyes and my smile faded. She was not next to me in the bed. There was no second pillow on the bed for her. And that’s when I realized that last night, that wonderful and amazing night I shared with her at the ball, was not real. Just as she was not real. It was all just a dream.

I rolled back over, away from the spot where I thought she’d be before I realized none of it was real. I closed my eyes tightly, wanting to shut out the false memories. I pulled the blankets over my head, and tears started to fall from my closed eyes. The pain of having these fake memories was too much to bear. I either wanted them to be real or wanted them gone. Instead, I was forced to retain them. So there I was, stuck and crying. A romantic without anyone to love. A dancer with no partner.

she sees me

not at the winter of my life

with gray hairs & memories

so over flowing

nor the fall

with the mountaintop

long behind me

but at that moment

I am closest to my dreams

& those tears that fall

are the first born

of ecstasy

while in her smile

I have come to discover

age

is but a another lie

that seduces us all

A customer turns the corner and heads toward my sidewalk café on Oak Street.

Just a man walking a dog on a hot day. That’s what the average person might see. But my entrepreneurial mind races through the demographics and likely spending habits of this prospective customer.

Disposable income is up for males in the 35-44 age bracket, which is where I place this fellow. And when I calculate the entertainment and dining percentages, especially on a Saturday afternoon scorcher in August, I think my café is exactly where he needs to be. And, yes, he starts to reach for his back pocket.

“Hey, mister! Over here. May I pet your doggie?”

Drat, it’s my competitor! He is trying to lure MY customer to Louie’s, that new establishment across the street. Who does he think he is? Doesn’t he know that most startups are doomed to fail?

No! My customer is stopping. His dog tugs on the leash, and they start to cross the street.

But I wasn’t born yesterday. I hop on the sidewalk with my delicious product in my left hand and a doggie treat in my right.

“What an adorable Labradoodle, sir!” I coo.

The dog sees my outstretched palm and pulls MY customer back to me. The dog snatches the treat and I offer a tall cool glass of my blushing liquid refreshment, with three glistening ice cubes.

The customer licks his lips between sips. He reaches for his wallet, but I gently shake my head.

“No sir,” I say confidently. “This one is on the house.”

I know that repeat business breeds success. And this customer will be back.

He returns the empty glass and adds, “That is just the cool break I needed.”

As my customer leaves, I catch a glimpse of my glum competitor across the street.

I lean on my card table by the curb, and I pat my taped-on sign, “Carol’s Pink Lemonade.”

“Yes,” I give myself a mental attagirl, “you’ve got to get up pretty early to put one by this seven-year-old.”

I am a model, even if I don’t want to model today

August 13, 2024

I am required to smile

I am required to walk

I am required not to talk

I am what the director says I am

I could be breaking within

I would be aching without

I should be taking my time

But the director has final say and it is always, “NO!”

So I wear my mask

Under the layers of applied makeup

Under the constant pressure to conform

Lies a woman with unmet needs

She wants to make her own decisions

She wants to choose what is best for her

But, she wants the pay that comes with the position

So, what you see is not what she gives

I am a model, even if I don’t want to model today

I am a model, even if I don’t want to be what you want me to be

I am a model, a woman of no conviction

Because I am a poor model, and I need the money

The monolithic ant mound stands colossal and stubbornly inert. There's not a living thing on this parched, stucco, gated community, masquerading as a dead artifact in the dead desert.

It fits into the desert. Fits all too well. It is contiguous with the hot, steaming dirt, in both geographic continuity and a promise of action should the right disturbance occur. Heat lines oscillate horizontally off of the mound. It articulates thermal innuendos along the desert floor. It radiates as a prelude for someone careless enough to read the story that follows.

Yet, now, all is quiet. All is well. Serenity bakes into the mound the pent kinetic energy that is cocked and ready. Its inertness is a warning of things best left alone.

Until all Hell breaks loose.

Across the lake the

hillside blurs: houses,

the vineyard, ten thousand

trees grow gray and

indistinct beneath

dark gray.

The chair, the novel, the

drying trunks I shelter before

returning to the dock to

extend my arms and

feel it come. It will mist

me with the wind, or it will

batter and punish my skin, or

some hundred or thousand

droplets among the septillion

will fall upon my arms and slide,

gently, along follicles and

fissures too small for me to know

so that then I can feel what I am.

A gull cries. I wait for God, for

the sky.

The sun is just beginning to set, caught in those few minutes where the sky is the most vivid. Like colored tears draining into each other, a golden eye open for just a moment before it's gone.

I drive home with the radio all the way up, the windows all the way down. And this time when you cross my mind, I let the wind take the breath from my lungs. I can't say for sure whether I make any noise at all, only that the speedometer is approaching eighty and the sound of the radio is vibrating my seat.

Nothing we did was ever loud.

I drive by the water, you know it's not on the way home, but I do it anyway. The seagulls outside the car circle and swoop, cawing at the light as it slips away. They drown out the music, somehow, but I still hear your voice in my head, begging me to stay.

You never saw the ocean. Not with me, anyway.

I turn the car around, backtracking until the roads are more familiar. Not that I don't know this town, but some streets I've been driving down since I was in a car seat. This is the path back home. In a sense.

When can you move back home? I hold a hand out the window to catch the breeze, remembering the first time someone asked me that. My new boss, as a matter of fact. And my father shortly after.

Home, as if it isn't still across the country with you.

I try to turn up the radio, but it won't go. I have to stop at a light and a wrinkled man and a woman hidden behind a sunhat look at me. The man's mouth frowns deeply, moving in unintelligible complaints. I wonder if there's enough sunlight left to see the trails the tears have left on my face. Or maybe I look too normal, I never was very good at getting emotional.

This is only a step backwards, is what you told me.

But how could I promise myself, I muse--foot on the gas, goodbye old man--to the life you wanted? Now that my brain's cracked open with the thought of you, it's seeping out through my skin. I feel like I'm burning from the inside out, knuckles white and my every cell remembering how you used to touch me. Hold me. Cry with me. You wanted a family. You wanted a stable life in a stable town. You wanted to fall in love, and we accidentally did. Are you sorry?

I am.

These roads are winding, narrow. I could just about navigate them with my eyes closed. Everything here's just as I remember it, down to the smell of water, the soft dirt. The distant sound of traffic and tree limbs hanging over the road, almost close enough to touch. Like a bubble with every point accessible from the center, just nothing beyond. Contained. Or waiting to pop.

I park the car in the garage. The radio is off but my mind is filled with deafening roar. I still picture what it'd be like to walk through the front door and have you greet me. A fantasy, but my mind itches for it. Instead, I greet the silence.

I only wonder: does the silence greet you, too?

In the heat of the scorching day my mind wanders,

Flirting with a non-existent

Realm of being.

I am

Lawrence of Arabia,

The Sheikh of Araby,

Count László Almásy,

And Rudolph Valentino

All combined gloriously into one persona,

Surrounded by dunes, constructed towers

Of windswept sand amidst penetrating rays

Of eclipsed, non-filtered, bright, luminescent,

Scorching sunlight.

Sweat rolls in an overwhelming abundance

Of waves, rivulets infused with the dirt, the grime

Of mortal sin –

It moves, rippling across arching, aching muscles

Housed beneath a multitude of layers – and lies.

My mouth thirsts for more than mere water

Amidst the brutality found in nonending

Dunes of sand whilst I search for an oasis,

Seek shelter from the sweltering, oppressive heat

And infiltrating sand particles of resounding judgement.

I am alone, swept up and lost in a tumultuous storm,

Only an echo of a man who once existed,

My memory skirting my very life and breath

To traverse the hills of sand until it disappears,

Evaporating in distant ripples of mountainous dunes

Stretching as far as the eye can behold.

I am lost,

A vision of a man

Who once was.